


Tomorrow is Soon Enough

by Lassarina



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Post-Battle of New York (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:01:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24991966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassarina/pseuds/Lassarina
Summary: Natasha and Clint don't quite talk about what Loki did, after shawarma.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28
Collections: Natasha Bingo





	Tomorrow is Soon Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Blithely ignores all canon introduced after _Avengers_ , specifically the farm.
> 
> Written for Natasha Bingo, "Clint/Natasha" prompt.

Clint's boots scrape on the floor of the shawarma shop and Natasha's eyes snap to him like iron to a magnet. He looks tired--they're all tired, half-lying in the chairs as the employees clean around them. Natasha would feel badly about it, but Tony handed the owner an impressive stack of money, even though the woman tried to turn it down--until Steve told her, with his best Captain America smile behind the dirt and bruises, that the Avengers still paid for their supper.

They've sat in silence, eating spiced meat and pitas and speaking only to ask one another to pass sauces--but Clint's silence is different. He's just as exhausted as they are, his shoulders slumped and bruises blooming purple and black on his face, but his silence isn't that of exhaustion and pain, at least not the kind that SHIELD's medics can fix.

Natasha rises too, her breath hissing in her throat as muscles protest their misuse. Clint glances at her, and then deliberately looks away. It stings. "Gonna turn in," he says, rusty and weary.

Tony grunts, starts to pull himself upright, but Clint waves a hand. "See you all around," he says.

Not _tomorrow._ Not _later._ Natasha's eyes narrow.

"Good night," she says to the others, politely. Clint's back stiffens.

"You both did great," Steve says, and there's not the faintest speck of false cheer. She could hate him if he weren't so damn earnest. "Will you be all right getting home?"

"We'll be fine," Clint says. Natasha just shakes her head, takes the two long steps to bring herself even with Clint, and walks out beside him.

The streets are eerily empty; some have come out to celebrate victory, but more are tucked up safe in their apartments and condos, shaken by the battle. He doesn't look at her, but she knows the way to his place as well as to her own. They walk in silence, which would normally be companionable but tonight is stretched thin and brittle, binding them together with strands of poorly tempered glass.

He doesn't send her away when they reach his building, but he doesn't invite her up, either. Not that it would stop her tonight if he _did_ send her away; tonight of all nights, Clint should not be alone.

He looks sideways at her and sighs when they reach his apartment door, and she shakes her head. "I know you have your own place," he says, even as he lets her precede him into the living room.

"Would you believe me if I said I like yours better?"

"No." He locks the door, sets the various accoutrements that make it harder to get in the front. Natasha checks the windows for signs of intruders; she knows Clint's tells, or at least most of them. If he's smart he has some he hasn't told her about, just in case, and she's never known him to be stupid.

When they're both satisfied that the apartment only contains them and hasn't been invaded in his absence, he sinks down onto the sofa with a little groan, and leans his head back. Natasha detours to get one of the first aid kids and set it nearby, then goes to the bathroom to handle her own injuries. Most are minor; her right ankle needs wrapping now that adrenaline has faded, and every bruise and cut throbs. Tony has his armor, if anything can do more than irritate the Hulk like a mosquito bite she's yet to see it, Steve has his healing, and Thor--well, she doesn't imagine gods get injured like she does, but she and Clint are standard-issue human. Things like today's fight take more of a toll.

"Nat," Clint says softly, "need help?" He pauses. "I mean, want help?"

She turns to see him standing far enough from the bathroom door not to cause shadows to move in her peripheral vision, something they both learned early on to avoid with each other. Dark circles hang heavy under his eyes, and beyond the exhaustion of fighting, there's more lurking, but he still came and offered her help, even though she forced her company on him tonight.

"Please," she says, and steps deeper into the bathroom.

His hands are gentle when he cleans the scrapes and cuts she can't reach, smooths ointment on, and fastens bandages. He hesitates over a particularly nasty cut on her left upper arm. "Might want to get this looked at tomorrow," he says after a moment.

Normally she'd nod. Today she chooses words. "I will."

When he's done with her injuries, she turns to face him. "Your turn," she says.

He hesitates.

"You don't have to talk about it," she says, softly. "Not tonight."

He nods, and the long breath he lets out is subtle, but she notices. She pretends not to. She cleans his cuts, checks for swelling and the kind of soft tissue damage that needs treatment instead of rest, but there isn't any. When she's done they've both stripped to underwear, and his eyes meet hers in the mirror.

He's so tired he's swaying, almost imperceptibly.

"Sleep now," she says. "The rest, later."

"Nat," he says. "I--today--"

She rests a hand on his shoulder, feels his warmth sinking into her skin, and wishes she had the right words. "It's not overnight," she says at last. "Getting it out of your head. You won't feel better when you wake up, not at first. But eventually."

His hand covers hers, familiar bow-string calluses and the heat of him, pressing her palm into his shoulder. "That's not what I was going to say," he says, "although I guess you had to drop that cold water on a ray of hope."

She makes her lips turn up in a smile, since that's what he expects.

"Thank you," he says, and his eyes lock with hers, and there, _there_ he is. "You saved me."

 _I owed you a debt_ is on the tip of her tongue, but Clint is one of the few people she tries not to lie to. Still, the truth catches in her throat and chokes her. All she can do is refuse to spin more of the web, not cut it down.

He squeezes her hand. "I'd offer to show my appreciation," he says, "but we might both fall asleep, and that would be bad for my ego. Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," she agrees, and lets him lead the way to the bedroom.

Tomorrow is soon enough.


End file.
